


When Under Ether

by pasiphile



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 17:02:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5878654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lost Hope might be a hell to Emma, but at least it still has one comfort to offer her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Under Ether

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to koni for betaing! And PJ Harvey for writing the song that furnished me with the title for this one.
> 
> note: I'm going on the plot of the TV series (with Arabella losing her memory), but the description of Arabella as non-pretty is ripped straight from the book. I hope you won't mind the shameless mishmash of canons.

* * *

 

_The woman beside me_  
_Is holding my hand_  
_I point at the ceiling_  
_She smiles, so kind_

* * *

 

 

There were guests in Lost Hope today.

Sometimes it amused Emma, in a bitter, perverted kind of way, how similar the practices in Faerie were to those in England - no matter how far one travelled, it seemed, one could never escape the whole tedious dance of introductions and titles and orders of precedence. Of course, there were differences as well, the kind that made Emma, used though she was now to the cruelties of Faerie, feel sick to her bones, and long for the relative kindness of English courts.

No English lord had ever been anointed with the blood of a freshly-killed slave in welcome.

There was one advantage of this whole dreary business, however, which was that the Gentleman did not have as much free time on his hands as he had in other circumstances. Both Emma and Arabella had been brought in front of the guests, giving the Gentleman the opportunity to show off his rarest of treasures, his two English roses. But following that they had been whisked away by some other fairies for dancing, largely ignored by both the Gentleman and his guests in favour of the complicated processions and ceremonies which humans had no part in.

The music – in as much as one could one call that dreadful discordant noise _music_ – paused, and Emma took the opportunity to detach herself from her current dance partner. She made her way off the ballroom, eyes tracking the crowds, searching for Arabella. She’d lost track of her friend during the dances, and right now she was desperate for the sight of a familiar, true, human face.

The emptiness was creeping up on her again.

The feeling had started a few weeks after she had first been taken to Lost Hope, and had never truly abated since. It ebbed and flowed; sometimes she felt almost like her old self, although tired and bitter and angry; other times she felt like she was made of glass, or diamonds, something cold and untouchable, as if she could walk through the world without ever touching or tasting or enjoying anything ever again. As if between her and the rest of the world stood a thin sheet of glass, unbreakable, separating her for ever from all the things she used to know.

Only one person could still break through that sheet.

Emma looked around, still searching, and her eyes fell on the alcoves. She hesitated briefly before she dared to approach them, for they were a new addition to the palace.

Lost Hope changed often. It was as changeable as its master, never settling on one form or shape for longer than a few months. It never became any less disagreeable to Emma, although she suspected the Gentleman sometimes chose his designs to please her, make her environment look like what she knew, what she was familiar with. It always failed: there was inevitably at least one tiny detail that was so deeply and inherently _wrong_ that it made the whole thing look and feel like a cruel joke.

But today’s refurbishment had little of the English in it. It reminded her more of those paintings she’d seen of Oriental seraglios, with strange arches and raised daises – and of course, those alcoves. Would Arabella be hiding there, seeking a moment of privacy?

Emma trailed past them, listening at each one. Some of them were empty. Some of them were filled with strange, animal noises – Emma went quickly passed those without lingering. She kept walking, listening, wincing at the strangeness inside until –

_“Oh, don’t deceive me, oh never leave me – ”_

A sweet voice, singing an uncomplicated English folk song, like an unexpected rose growing from an insalubrious swamp. Emma smiled, then pulled the curtain aside and slipped in.

“ _Thus sang the poor maiden her faith bewail-_ oh, hello, my dear.” Arabella smiled. “Will you join me? I fear I may have danced one time too many. I was quite suddenly in need of a sit-down.”

Emma leaned her cheek against the fraying velvet of the curtain. Like all things in Lost Hope, it attempted to give the impression of luxury and splendour, but seen from a closer distance it became clear that the silvery fabric was in fact greying, that the glittering was caused as much by decay as by precious stones, and that there were holes and tears in it as if it had been the victim of some kind of moth.

Such a contrast all that decay made to Arabella’s lively face, her sparkling dark eyes, her sweet smile.  Beautiful, yes, but in such a different way than the fairies’ flawless glamours. Arabella’s beauty had always been in her person, rather than her form: it were her animation and her wit and her kindness that made her face – quite regular, but nothing special – come to life with radiance and personality.

Even now, with the fairy’s curse addling her mind, her charm and intelligence refused to be tamed.

“But, my love,” Arabella said softly, “you look like you are even more in need to rest your feet than me. Whatever is the matter?”

Emma closed the curtain and sat down on the cushioned bench next to Arabella. “I am merely tired, my dear.”

Arabella frowned at her, and Emma found herself unable to look away.

Arabella might not always remember she was human, but her body certainly did. She looked a little flushed and there was a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead, and Emma felt the strangest urge to touch Arabella, feel the heat of her pink cheeks, the soft touch of her eyelashes, the way her mouth would twist if she smiled…

Emma looked down at her own hands, and the one finger where she imagined she could still see a faint silvery line, a scar as a testament of her brutal mutilation. “I am tired, Arabella,” she muttered, more to herself than to her friend. “And I have been tired for so long that I can no longer remember what it feels like to have energy, or joy, or peace…”

“My dear friend,” said Arabella, her voice heavy with her characteristic warmth and empathy – as if they were still in the drawing room in Soho Square and Arabella was desperately trying to give Emma some comfort, even though she did not, could not understand Emma’s sorrow.

And like Arabella had then, she drew Emma to her. She stroked the side of Emma’s face, the back of her neck, her shoulders bared by the dress, then wrapped her arms around Emma and pulled her into an embrace.

Emma closed her eyes, overwhelmed. Here was the touch she had been craving. Here was someone else, someone human. A steady heartbeat instead of the rabbit’s pitter-patter or deathly silence of the Fairies’ chests. The scent of skin and hair and even sweat, not drowned out yet by the heady overpowering Faerie perfumes the Gentleman was so fond of dousing them with. Soft, sweet breath. Gentle hands without the discomfiting feel of ghost-fur upon them.

A fellow human.

“I have the strangest notion that is not the first time I’ve held you like this.” Arabella ran her hand over Emma’s neck. “Have I? You are my friend, are you not? My love?”

Emma pulled her head back from the comfort of Arabella’s bosom and looked up. Did she remember? Her curse was such a strange one, her memory not quite gone, nor her personality, but still with significant parts missing.

“Do you know me?” Emma asked, her fingers clamping down on Arabella’s wrist.

Arabella ran her fingertips over Emma’s face, the touch as light and gentle as a butterfly’s wings. “Yes,” she said, frowning. “Yes, I think I do. You are my friend. You were in pain, and I tried to help you. We sewed together. You were in need and I came to you, leaving my hu– ”

Emma hurriedly covered Arabella’s mouth with her hand. “Do not speak of that,” she entreated. The curse might be unclear, but one thing was certain: Arabella was not permitted to remember her husband. And if she talked of him, if her memories were erased once more and this little morsel, this momentary recognition would be ripped away from Arabella again… She could not bear the thought.

“Emma,” Arabella said, with a sigh. “Dearest Emma.”

Emma had tried to stop thinking of Arabella as a friend, since she seemed so far gone, but then again she _was_ still Arabella. Not even the Gentleman’s curse had been able to erase that. And the way she looked at Emma now, full of kindness and attentive concern, as if Emma was the only thing which mattered in the whole wide world to Arabella – that was so like the friend she knew and loved that she was quite unable to stop herself from touching Arabella’s cheek in return.

“You remember me?” Emma asked, her voice breaking.

“Yes, I do. It is vague, but…” Arabella smiled. “I remember I love you. Don’t I?”

Emma nodded, mute for a whole other reason than the curse, for once.

Arabella smiled her soft smile, and her eyes closed and she leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss on Emma’s mouth.

Emma trembled.

She had at one point, when it had seemed to her she was at the depths of her despair, begged Stephen for the comfort of his embrace, his kiss, his touch. He had refused, ever so politely – not for any reasons to do with her, he had assured her, but rather because propriety was all they had left here of their world. The Gentleman could steal their words, their will, their movements, but he could not steal their manners or etiquette. And so Stephen never touched her beyond what was required in a dance, or in offering a hand or arm to support her when her exhaustion made her stumble.

Emma had quite forgot what affectionate human touch felt like.

She moved closer to Arabella, driven by a hunger that surprised her, which she could not explain. Similar to the passion she had felt after her first nights in Lost Hope, and how she remembered Walter’s surprize, his delight, his answering fervour. The pleasures of the marital bed had soon lost their appeal, like all things had. And this passion she felt now, this desire, was quite something else. Wild, in its way, but deeper, slower. Safer.

Arabella stroked Emma’s hair, her fingers catching on the diamond-encrusted hair net the Gentleman had given her. Emma pulled it off in impatience and tugged Arabella’s hand back to the thick dark mass of her hair. Arabella weaved her fingers through Emma’s tresses, and Emma closed her eyes, leaned her cheek against Arabella’s. She had moved so close she was now practically sitting on Arabella’s lap.

“Please,” Emma murmured. “Please…”

Arabella made a gentle, comforting, shushing noise, one which Emma had often heard before, in the days when she still often flew into a rage over her own impotence and the stupidity of those surrounding her. All others’ attempts at calming her down would inevitable fail, but Arabella’s soft words, her light touch, had often been enough to dissipate Emma’s anger.

Arabella’s hands drifted lower, her nails gently caressing the back of Emma’s neck, and the other on her waist. Like a dance partner would hold her, but she was so careful, her Arabella, so gentle, so warm, so real.

Emma kissed her again. Not chastely like she had before, but with a fire and heat she had not felt since the first few days of her marriage to Walter, when she had dragged him into bed laughing and eager.

Arabella seemed unsurprised by Emma’s fervour. The Gentleman seemed to have taken away her ability to be surprised at anything, had given her a calm and accepting attitude to all things.

Emma broke the kiss and looked deeply into Arabella’s eyes. Was the woman in front of her truly still her friend? Or was she an empty shell, filled with the Gentleman’s idea of what a woman should be?

“Arabella,” Emma said urgently. “You said you remember, but what _do_ you remember? Of before?”

“Before?” Arabella frowned. “Not much, I’m afraid. It’s all so cloudy, you see. I remember... I remember a – man?” Her frown deepened, but Emma grabbed Arabella’s arm and squeezed.

“Not the man. Anything but him. What else do you remember?”

“I remember – a coach ride, the cold, but I did not care because…” Her frown turned into a smile, sad and a little tired and so like her old friend. “Because you were in need of me.”

Emma wiped a tear from her eye with brute impatience.

“Emma,” Arabella said, softly. “Dearest Emma, my poor love. Let me help you.”

She wished to believe it. She _had_ to believe it, for she was unable to move away now.

Arabella gently tilted Emma’s head closer to hers and kissed her again. Silk rustled against her leg, Emma’s dress drawing up under the pull of Arabella’s fingers. Her hand’s warmth was a shock against the bare skin above her stockings.

“You are trembling,” Arabella murmured.

Emma gave a short breathless laugh and grasped Arabella’s shoulders, fell forward against her, encircled in the safety of Arabella’s arm. Warmth was flooding through her veins, her blood heated and quick-flowing. Her cheeks warmed, her breath shortened. Arabella’s slowly drifting fingers left a trail of sparking fire that had, for once, nothing to do with magic.

“Arabella – ” Emma choked out.

“Shush, my love.”

She was expecting violence. She _wanted_ violence, the hardness of primal thrusting, coupling like animals, brutal and simple. Arabella refused to oblige. Her touch remained light and tender and utterly unsatisfying, bringing tears to Emma’s eyes with how much she wanted and yet –

She gasped in air by the mouthful, her body tense like a violin string, stumbling on the edge of something without ever quite falling over. And Arabella was smiling, full of warmth and amusement and care.

“My love,” Arabella whispered, and she leaned in and kissed Emma again, and finally – although Arabella’s touch did not alter, stayed soft and sweet until the end – Emma gasped and arched with sudden overwhelming pleasure.

She felt alive, _alive_ , gloriously unfetteredly alive.

She breathed out heavily, trembling as Arabella held her and murmured sweet nothings into her ear. Emma’s hair had come undone, falling around them in dark messy tendrils. Arabella carefully pushed them away from Emma’s hot face.

Arabella’s dark eyes shone, her cheeks were flushed. Emma reached out, then paused. “I do not – ” She laughed, breathlessly, amazed. “I do not know what to do.”

“It’s quite alright, my dear,” Arabella said, then tenderly tucked a strand of hair behind Emma’s ear.

“Thank you,” Emma whispered. “Thank you, thank you, my dearest, my love…” She pressed graceful kisses on Arabella’s cheeks, her forehead, her eyelids, her chin, grasping Arabella’s head between her hot hands. Arabella laughed, soft and full of breath, warm. Emma leaned her forehead against Arabella’s and shut her eyes tight, wishing for just one moment that all had been nothing but a bad dream, that this was reality, Arabella against her. It certainly felt more real than anything she’d felt in a long time.

Then the curtain was yanked open.

“Ladies,” an all too familiar voice declared from behind them. “Such a beautiful sight you make, coiled together like two amorous swans. But  - my dearest Lady Pole, your headdress has come undone! Here, let me.”

Emma opened her mouth to protest, but it was too late, and the cold sparking light of magic trickled through her as the hairnet fastened itself again in her hair, the tresses coiling as of their own accord.

Already the warmth, the human fire, was slipping away from her, lost in favour of this chilly untouchable magic. She felt like weeping.

“Come,” the Gentleman said. Ordered. Emma bowed her head, refusing to look over her shoulder, at him. If he was nothing but a voice, maybe she could…

But Arabella pushed gently at Emma’s waist. Her face, her lovely fiery stubbornly not-beautiful face had gone vacant once more, the small smile she wore now a disgusting weak copy of the real thing. Emma let herself be pushed aside and watched, helplessly, as Arabella went back to the Gentleman as if it was her dearest wish to be near to him.  

It hurt, dear god did it hurt, to see Arabella’s charm and intelligence and joie de vivre reduced to a parody of itself.

_Demon_ , she thought, fiercely. _Devil_.

The Gentleman turned to her. He cocked his head. “You look … _different_ , tonight, Lady Pole.”

“Do I?” She stood up, raised her chin, wished the fire still lingering in her body to come to the surface and consume him on the spot.

“Quite…” He tilted his head to the other side, like a bird puzzling over something unexpected. “… intriguing.”

“Even after all these years in your company, I can still be intriguing to you?” said Emma. “That is pleasing. Come, my love.” She bypassed the Gentleman’s outstretched hand and grasped Arabella’s fingers instead. They were chill to the touch, already contaminated by the Gentleman’s presence.

She pulled. The Gentleman, somewhat surprisingly, let them go and chuckled as if they were performing some charming game. “You seem very fond of Arabella, Lady Pole.”

“She is my dearest friend in all the world,” said Emma.

“Then surely it grieves you to have to leave her every day,” the Gentleman said slyly. “Would it not bring you pleasure to spend both your days and nights in the company of your dear friend?”

Emma froze.

Her days brought her no pleasure. They had not in several years, but they were still her own, especially now her keepers had given her back some autonomy, now she was allowed to walk around and read and eat at her own leisure. The smallest morsel of freedom in a life defined by chains and orders.

But Arabella… It turned her stomach thinking of her friend here, all alone, no one to keep her company but these heathen demons. Could Emma give up her freedom for her? After all Arabella had done for her, surely it would be fair, right, to make some kind of sacrifice in return?

“Sadly,” the Gentleman said quite cheerfully, “this is not the agreement.”

Emma whirled. “You let me _believe_ – ” she choked out, struggling with her fury.

“Goodbye, Lady Pole.” The Gentlemen made her a bow, then took Arabella’s hand. “Arabella and I will see you tomorrow.”

She cursed him at the top of her voice while Lost Hope faded around her, and woke in the bed in Starecross still yelling.

Segundus burst through the door, looking quite alarmed. “Milady?”

“That _devil_ ,” Emma spat. “That thrice-cursed bastard son of a whore, that infernal – ”

“ _Who_ , Lady Pole?” Segundus sat down and took her arm. He was gentle about it, but after Arabella’s loving touch it might as well be red-hot steel. She pulled away.

“ _Him_ ,” she hissed. “The Gentleman. The – the – there once were three ladies in Yorkshire who could turn into owls – ” She let out a howl of wordless rage.

“Lady Pole, _please_ do not upset yourself this way. You cannot force the words out, we know –  we know you want to talk, but you will only hurt yourself further.” He gave her a look full of frustrated compassion.

It reminded her a little of Arabella, that look. She took a deep breath. Her calm returned, somewhat.

She wiped the tears from her eyes and sat up. “I am ready to get dressed now, Mr Segundus,” she said, with all the composure she had gained after nearly a decade of torture.

“Are you quite sure? I, ah, I did not intend to – ” Segundus blushed. “You looked unusually upset.”

“It is nothing.” She rose and went to her mirror. She carefully touched the mirror image’s mouth, drew it down. “One day,” she whispered, softly. “One day, my dear friend, my love, I swear to you. One day he will pay for what he has done to you.”

“Lady Pole?”

“I think I will wear my hair loose today, Mr Segundus.” She turned, forced herself to smile. Poor Segundus looked quite daunted.

“I am quite tired of nets.”


End file.
